


i don't want to be a big man (i just wanna fight like everyone else)

by lazybug



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Multi, OT3, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, dumb reasons to pick a fight, fights in the rain, sorry it's so cheesy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:24:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazybug/pseuds/lazybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski is an important part of the pack and he will make damn sure that he proves it. And if that means sticking his neck out and putting himself in dangerous situations, so be it. (Or Stiles throws a tantrum when Derek and Scott say it's too dangerous.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't want to be a big man (i just wanna fight like everyone else)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hero by Family of the Year
> 
> Special thanks to releasethecracker for being my beta and making sure this actually made sense! and egging me on to keep writing.

Within minutes of the loft door sliding shut, searing, angry heat filled the air. Words of acrimony were practically roared back and forth, leaving not a single second of silence.

It wouldn’t be a surprise to know that no one was really listening to anything but their own runoff.

Derek was snarling about how using anyone as bait was suicide: plain and simple, but just too incredibly stupid. Scott was shouting right back about something or other about pack being family, “—and that means keeping everyone safe!”

In the back of Stiles’ mind, he thought that if the two listened to the other, they could come to the conclusion that they were both trying to stop Stiles from anything involving pack matters. He’d much rather keep them bickering than teaming up again him.

Meanwhile, Stiles joined in with his arguments of being useful. Even if he isn’t a supernatural thing, he could come in handy. He knew his way around a baseball bat. Well, kind of. And he could run for his life or use his humor to confuse his captor, or whatever. Point was, Stiles could take care of himself, and this plan would work if they just gave him a chance.

Whether they realized it or not, the pack almost always ended up using his plans. They were ingenious and worked, for Christ’s sake. Plus, Deaton has been teaching him all that he could recently. Stiles had a use; if it was knowing what they were up against, he would argue that point with all his might.

“Scott, he’s just a kid!” Derek retorted, gesturing sharply with his entire arm towards Stiles, “We’re not letting him go out there.”

Scott squared his shoulders, rolled his eyes, and folded his arms over his chest. “So am I,” Scott replied, terse and resolute. He nodded towards Stiles, “I’m trying to keep him safe. Aren’t you?” he added challengingly.

At this point, Derek looked bewildered and beyond pissed off. He hid it well with an achingly sweet smile towards the boy of discussion. Stiles watched helplessly, an annoyed frown on his lips. He watched as Derek rolled his tongue over his teeth and clicked it after. With a tilt of his head, he said, “Tell me again why we even have him, ” he paused, leveling a glance at Scott, “in this in the first place? He’s a human. What can he do? More harm than good.”

To think that Stiles found himself welcomed in the pack for the past however many years, was officially a joke. He didn’t even bother to grab his sweatshirt that sat on the metal table near the windows. He knew his phone was in it, though he didn’t care much when he stormed out. Scott’s reply didn’t mean anything now. After all, he was just a human, right?

He stomped down the steps, muttering his discomfiture as he went. And of course, of course, it never rains but it pours—both figuratively and literally. Sighing and stealing a glance back into a place safe from freezing rain, Stiles took off down the road.

He should’ve known after all these years that he was still nothing more than an inept distraction. To Derek, human was simply another word for futile.

Stiles’ feet sloshed through puddles, soaking the bottom half of him easily. On the other hand, the downpour seemed to be drenching the rest of him just fine on its own. Within five minutes, he was completely water-logged. The thin fabric of his clothes grew heavy, making every step that much harder to take.

Without the cover of his sweatshirt (or an umbrella—why didn’t he have an umbrella), the raindrops stung like tiny icicles pricking his skin. Stiles realized then he hated rain but hated being cold much, much more. He was blaming Derek and Scott when he got pneumonia. There was no “if” about it. He was going to get pneumonia.

He didn’t have a certain place in mind. He figured home would be out of the question, considering that would be the first place any of the pack would look for him. If they looked for him.

He kept walking for at least another few miles. He trekked past his house and past the local bakery. Somehow ended up at the lacrosse field.   
His shoes sunk into the mud under his feet, his hair was matted down by the intense rainfall, his nose was running consistently, and shivers wracked his body. All in all, the experience definitely wasn’t going to be on his top ten list of best moments in his life.

Sniffling, Stiles continued to make his way over towards the bleachers. Briefly, he thought about slipping off into the woods. He would be unnoticed for once and because of the rain, he probably wouldn’t leave a scent trail.

Did werewolves have the same thing as dogs where they can’t pick up a scent after the person ducks into a river or whatever? He needed to ask Deaton when given the chance.

Instead, he plopped onto the cold, also soaked, metal. Stiles promptly huffed out a sad laugh and slumped until his head was cradled in his hands. Leave it to him to have the most stereotypical teenager breakdown in the middle of a torrential downpour. Yet most high schoolers didn’t deal with werewolves or other things of the shapeshifting nature.

God, how did he get sucked into all this? Shouldn’t he have realized before that he wasn’t needed and gotten the hell out of dodge?

“I found him,” Derek’s voice suddenly cut in, “He’s fine.” In the pause of what Stiles assumed was a reply, he looked up at Derek with as cold of a glare as he could muster. He would’ve been happier if it turned the werewolf into an ice cube, honestly. But sadly he wasn’t that lucky.

Short phrases were exchanged and the phone call ended on a terse, “I will.” Apparently goodbye’s weren’t needed when talking with actual pack. Whatever. Stiles was allowed to be as bitter as he was, at least for the moment.

Stiles sat in that puddle of water on the hunk of metal and stared straight ahead as long as he dared. When Derek blocked his view by stepping in the way, he moved his head to glower at the flooded ground. Derek crouched, elbows rested on his knees.

As his name was mentioned, he clenched his jaw and stubbornly closed his eyes. Derek said it again, this time tacking on something about getting out of the rain. Still, Stiles remained firmly planted in his spot, not giving any mind to the man in front of him. Alternately, he opted for picking at a hangnail when he opened his eyes again.

He heard the all too familiar sound of a sigh in front of him and then the squelch of boots on mud. Some mumbled comment was mixed in there, but Stiles couldn’t catch it.

Derek was lucky he didn’t have super(not)human hearing like the rest of his friends. Could he consider them friends after being called useless? Probably, he seemed to have a thing for people who treat him like shit. Well, Lydia doesn’t really do that anymore because they’re friends, and he’s not completely and utterly head over heels in love with her anymore. It didn’t matter anymore so there wasn’t any use in thinking about any of this whatsoever.

Derek yanked on his arm, lifting the smoldering teen from his spot. He used his strength to an unfair advantage, to which Stiles growled a quick, “Fuck off.”

At least when he pushed at the bigger man’s chest, Derek had the courtesy to stumble back a few feet as if Stiles had actually done some damage with his shove. He held his hands up in surrender, too, but ushered Stiles to his car as quickly as he could.

And as if he couldn’t make Stiles even more pissed off, Derek ducked into the driver’s side, leaned over, and opened the passenger door like he was expecting Stiles to get in just like that. Stiles snorted.

He turned his back wordlessly and continued aimlessly in the opposite direction of the Camaro, ignoring his chattering teeth and goosebumps.  
He wasn’t getting in that car without an apology. He wasn’t going anywhere near Derek Hale until he could smell the guilt wafting off of him from a mile away.

Right now, Derek was nothing but a walking dog without a conscience or a single appealing quality—a dog with a startling protective instinct for his pack. What was Stiles to Derek, anyway? Was he only allowed at pack meetings because Scott won’t be in the pack otherwise? He wasn’t a useless ribeye that would be used as a bribing tool. But he guessed he already took that job a long time ago.

Frustrated, he kicked at a rock as he continued through the parking lot. “Damn werewolves,” he muttered under his breath, glancing over his shoulder to check to see if Derek left yet. No, of course not.

Now, both doors were wide open. Derek was sloshing through puddles left and right as he made his way over to Stiles. His expression remained in that mix of placid and pissed. His leather jacket was held up over his head, protecting him from the rain, though his hair was already flat with water against his forehead. Honestly, he looked more like a soaked kitten than a werewolf—just like when Stiles saved his ass in the pool way back when. Come to think of it, Stiles probably saved Derek more than Derek saved Stiles.

“Humans are useless, my ass!” he nearly cackled in disbelief, turning on his heel to face Derek. He swung his arms out in an exasperated gesture, squinting through the rain. The older man didn’t have a clue what Stiles was talking about; his expression told the tale, bold and true.

Maybe the filter of the rain was obstructing certain facial features that showed a different story despite the fact that Stiles could basically see the bemused glint. Or was that anger. He couldn’t be sure this time around.

Even so, it didn’t excuse him to stay here any longer than need be. He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, sniveling once again. Over the rain, he heard the crunch of gravel from Derek following suit. Stiles ducked his head and continually rubbed his hands over his arms, hoping to cure the chills.

He managed to walk with his shoulders hunched for a total of five feet before Derek tugged turbulently at Stiles’ shoulder. At Stiles’ frequent reprehension, Derek bared his surprisingly dull, entirely human teeth. His eyes weren’t aglow with red heat either. As soon as eye contact was made, the impetuosity immediately withered.

What replaced it was instantaneous worry; hands reached for any part of Stiles they could reach, eyes scanned every inch of for possible injury (Stiles assumed that was the case), and short puffs of breath hit his face as all the exertion was spent on making sure he wasn’t dying (presumably). “Look, okay I’m fine. Thanks for—Derek!” Stiles squeaked, angrily of course, while he was being ushered to the car. His heels were digging into the pavement while he was being pushed. It was like a cartoon, really. He hated werewolves.

And he wasn’t afraid to voice it while he was being dragged out of the rain. Stiles didn’t like being manhandled to all hell when he was pissed. It was a no-go unless he was feeling particularly lascivious. Today was certainly not that day.

He physically heard Derek roll his eyes—that, or the increased huff and puff at the base of his neck gave it away. Either way, both were pleased with themselves when they got in the car, but for completely different reasons. Derek was proud for husbanding Stiles into doing something he wanted and Stiles was because he made his—Scott’s—alpha exhausted with his persistence and attitude. It was a win-win. Kind of.

Well, at least he was shivering in a place with heat on full blast and he was no longer in danger of rain melting his skin off. Honestly, after a while, the water droplets could’ve been acid with how hard they were coming down and how much they hurt.

Directly after the driver’s side door was slammed shut, Stiles knew he was in for it, the whole shebang. Derek was too. So was Scott. At least from Stiles’ end.

Shockingly, he wasn’t met with pointed teeth or vibrant red eyes. Instead, Derek studied Stiles carefully, cocking his head to the side every so often to prompt conversation that never came.

The younger of the two took his own brooding silence in stride, even if he was still shaking from the biting rain. The least he could do was act like he wasn’t going to die from hypothermia in a situation like this.

Honestly, he was just as stunned when there wasn’t a conversation to be had when there weren’t thousands of towels he was sat upon. This car was very important to Derek, it seemed. Maybe not?

Another minute ticked by lazily, unaware of the tense atmosphere. Derek didn’t seem to mind sitting in silence. Derek never minded sitting in silence.

Stiles tuned into hearing Derek drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel after a while. When they stopped suddenly, he looked over to see Derek with a sentence forming on his lips, but no sound coming out. Rather than interacting (apologizing) like an actual human being, he decided to pinch his lips between his teeth and breathe noisily out of his nose.

If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d think that Derek was actually feeling guilty about what he said—maybe even care that he hurt someone with his words. But no. He definitely knew better. After years of Derek hiding everything including a single trace of resentment, Stiles knew what that look was about. Scott clearly put Derek up to it: the apology, looking for him, getting him out of the rain, everything. And the thought did nothing but piss him off. Once again, he was tempted to stomp off like the irritable teenage boy he was.

It struck a nerve somewhere. His expression must’ve given away something because Derek looked expectantly and somewhat guarded at him. At that, Stiles harshly laughed, “You don’t even know what you did, do you? That’s hilarious.” He paused, squinting and shaking his head. For a moment, he pressed the tip of his tongue to one of his top molars, mouth slightly ajar. “I don’t need this. If you’re not going to apologize, the least you could do is take me home,” he finished, fully aware of the disdain tone.

Beside him, Derek snorted, “Okay, grumpy.” He then shifted the gear and pulled out of the diagonal, horrendous park job that he did. Stiles didn’t bother to consider the fact that Derek might’ve been panicking too much than to worry about how good his parking was.

The ride to his house consisted of Derek trying to use words and failing several time, and Stiles snapping remarks and clenching his jaw when he wasn’t. All in all, it distracted from the fact that they weren’t even near the Stilinski household.

When he finally noticed the ruined complex coming into view, Stiles full out laughed humorlessly. Derek only looked pleased and somewhat weary. Easy to say, he slammed the door as hard as he could when he got out of the car. He cocked his head as he shook it, rolled his tongue over his teeth, and pivoted to walk the complete opposite direction. “No, no. That’s okay. I’ll walk home. Full circles aren’t really my thing.”

The inevitable happened. One second he was storming off, upright and his weight was distributed evenly on his feet. The next, his head was holding every ounce of blood in his body and his stomach was being puncture by something—maybe a shoulder blade. If he felt like joking, he would crack one about how his dad is, you know, the sheriff, and that kidnapping was, well, against the law. But he felt like he was going to pass out from being upside-down. Somehow, staying conscious felt much more important than being a smart ass.

The worst part was that he knew Derek barely even had to lift a finger. The guy probably didn’t even exert any energy to throw Stiles over his shoulder and keep him there.

And as jealous as he was of the super strength, super hearing, super everything, Stiles doesn’t want the bite. He’s just fine being the sidekick. As long as he got to be the sidekick, at least. But now he might not be able to even be a background character in this whole ‘werewolf pack versus monster-of-the-week’ thing.

It was both infuriating and alluring—tilting more towards infuriating, Stiles thought stiffly. He hoped Scott could hear his displeasure. Or smell.

"Oh, no! Not gonna happen, big guy. You are not taking the stairs with me on your back. You will not—oh I’m gonna vomit. Fuck. Take the elevator, dammit!"

Derek chuffed. The sound almost resembled some sort of laugh. It made his shoulders jump and Stiles may or may not have kneed Derek in surprise. No reaction was exhibited. There wasn’t even a startled, “Ooft.”

Stiles figured that asking to be let down wasn’t going to cut it for his werewolf companion and captor. Instead, he sat through the disorienting task of being taken upstairs. Maybe he even passed out for a few seconds while the blood all pooled in his head. Honestly, he wasn’t all that sure.

He was beyond relieved when his back hit what he could only assume was the couch in the loft. He said as such to whoever was listening. Scott laughed, which eased more of Stiles’ residing anger.

It shouldn’t have because he was mad at his best friend, or he should have been at least. No, he was. He was mad at Scott for not believing in him, in arguing against him in order to “keep him safe.” He was mad, no matter how much his best friend’s laugh made him relaxed and giddy at the same time. And Scott’s eyes were like a puppy’s. Nobody could possibly stay mad at that face.

But honestly.

Stiles knew his way around a baseball bat. Seriously. He wasn’t a helpless fool with no backup plan. His backup plan was always to run. Didn’t they know that by now? Sometimes he really hated the pack mentality of idiocy. Did the bite (or being born into it, in Derek’s case) take away common sense? Or remembrance of Stiles ability to run for his life when he needed to.

Stiles shivered involuntarily. He was trying to brood. He needed Derek and Scott to feel guilty as hell for talking about him like that. It didn’t matter if they were right or not. Didn’t his body understand that this wasn’t the time for being cold?

As if on cue, Derek came into view with a sweatshirt, sweatpants, a tee shirt, and a pair of boxer briefs—maybe they were trunks. He lifted his eyebrows in question before tossing the articles of clothing at Stiles. “Shower’s down the hall if you want one,” he said plainly, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

In return, Stiles examined each piece carefully. He was not taking anything that had unknown substances in places they shouldn’t be. Which meant if there was a stain anywhere on anything, he was fleeing the scene in disgust with as much dignity as he could possibly muster, presumably after squeaking out in horror at said stain.

After looking at the NYC hoodie, he deemed it relatively safe. The sweatpants followed suit into the “clean” pile. He felt weird looking for stains in the underwear. It was like looking through a man’s bedside drawers, somehow. You never know what could be in there, seriously!

He found a pair of fuzzy handcuffs inside Jackson’s one time. Him and Scott were searching through it way back when they were looking for evidence that Jackson was actually the kanima. They don’t talk about that.

The thought brought another rush of chills. Those ones were not from being cold, at all. He suddenly felt like he walked through a spider web—over and way beyond grossed out.

"For Christ’s sake, Stiles, I do laundry. They’re clean," Derek gritted out through his teeth, obviously offended at such non-stated accusations.

They were clean, just like the—shocker—charcoal colored shirt.

Stiles took a shower yet he didn’t use any of Derek’s things. He was scared that he would use too much of everything and smell like the alpha for all eternity. Not that it was a bad thing. He didn’t need the pack getting any ideas. So he stood under the spray of super heated water until he felt warm enough.

It took roughly ten minutes to thaw completely.

He searched for the towels on his own, he really did, to no avail. In the end, he resorted to yelling, “Scott, can you ask Derek where his towels are? I’m not getting into these clothes wet, too.” He was quite proud of the cold shoulder act, even if it meant giving in and talking to Scott.

He was met with the stormy face of doom, as Erica liked to call it when she was still around. That face handed him a fluffy towel and so he bit back any of his usual sarcastic remarks. In lieu, he thanked Scott in regards to the towel, and slammed the door back in place.

Once his—Derek’s—clothes were on, Stiles checked his reflection out of reflex. The man in the mirror wore his face but around his eyes were puffy and around and on his nose was a fading pink. The bags under his eyes weren’t that much of a big deal. His hair was a mess, too. It was no wonder nobody bothered to stop him on the street. He was a hodgepodge and a half. And this was after having taken a shower! He ran his fingers through his hair until it looked partially decent and splashed some water on his face.

It wasn’t all that bewildering to find that the clothes actually fit. Derek and Stiles were similar in height. Their builds were nothing but different, but they still fit comfortably if not a tad bit baggy. Who knows, maybe lacrosse was actually getting him more muscle mass than he thought. Or the whole fighting-a-new-monster-nearly-every   
-week thing. Whatever. Muscle mass.

The clothes smelled like Derek; like cedar wood and warmth. Well, at least he did when he didn’t lather in cologne, which luckily wasn’t often. Scott normally smelled like grass. Grass and boy. Also cologne, but still.   
When did Stiles start paying attention to what his friends smelled like? He wasn’t the werewolf here. Honestly, he was probably glad that he didn’t have a super-nose. It would be too much of a hassle to control and get used to.

Regardless of what (or who) he now smelled like, he stepped out of the bathroom and made his way into the main room. Is that what he could call the entire loft considering it was nothing but a giant room split into different quadrants?

He heard the murmured, heated conversation. Derek was looming over Scott, his back facing Stiles as he walked in. By the way his back muscles were taut, Stiles knew that his arms were crossed over his chest. Meanwhile, Scott sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. His body language still managed to give off a tense atmosphere.

It was obvious that the two didn’t notice him walking in, or they chose to ignore him altogether.

"Can you at least try? It’s not like it would kill you. And I don’t think Stiles could kill you."

"Scott."

"Derek."

"You realize you can’t choose whether or not I go out there, right? You can’t decide whether I live or die, or if I can win a fight, or if it’s too dangerous out there. You can’t. I’m not some loose-limbed kid anymore," Stiles cut in, squaring his shoulders and wiping aimlessly at a spot under his eye.  
In the silence moment that followed his outcry, he licked at his bottom lip and glanced around the loft just to give him something to do.

He felt two pairs of eyes boring—practically shooting daggers—in his general direction. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up; figuratively, of course, because that had never actually happened before.

He noticed the beginnings of a sigh before he heard it. Derek’s entire body language shifted from bullheaded stiffness to blatantly stressed. His shoulders slumped while the rest of the fight went out of him. The bridge of his nose was pinched between his thumb and forefinger. There it was, the prolonged sigh, the emotions flickering in his eyes, and the smack of dry lips closing.

After a shared glance between pack mates, Scott then sighed, “We know.”

Stiles would have been lying if he said he wasn’t expecting more from his best friend. Scott normally droned on and on about how horrible he felt about things and all that. Now, all he got was a two word response? Not even a twitch of a smile? Instead he got crossed arms and tight frowns.

He would’ve expected more, is all.

"And you know what else? You," Stiles stepped forward and pushed a finger into Derek’s chest, "—you don’t get to treat me like I’m not a part of this pack because we both know goddamn well that I am an asset. Somehow."

He swallowed, suddenly aware of how petty this was. The three of them never put each other through the ringer for something like wanting to help. What was the big deal, anyways? Stiles always helped the group. As he said before, he saved Derek’s ass more often than not.

He stated as such. The vast switches Derek’s facial features went through within those following seconds almost made the whole running away from his problems worth it.

What Derek replied with made it even better, even if it was begrudgingly said.

"Stiles, we—I care about you. Okay? You’re important to the pack and we need you safe. I need you safe. Scott needs you safe. We don’t want you getting hurt if it’s not necessary. We’re not doing this to spite you, and I’m sorry if I made you think that. Now would you cut out the moody drama queen routine? I don’t need the interior of my car ruined from water damage."

The ‘I’m-glad-you’re-safe-Stiles’ was implied; the lopsided, closed mouth almost-smile proved that.

And Scott dragging him into a bear hug. Stiles didn’t mind when Derek meandered close enough to pat him on the shoulder. It was actually kind of nice, feeling appreciated like that.

The warm feeling in his stomach stayed until Scott snuffed and blew out the breath quickly, obviously not pleased. “Dude, you smell like Derek,” he laughed out, pushing at Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles pushed away Scott in return with a hand to the face, aiming mostly for his best friend’s nose.   
Derek merely snorted at the interaction.

It took a few more stabs at apologies for Stiles to finally give in. To Derek, at least. He forgave Scott the moment the boy’s eyes lit up like a lost puppy finding it’s owner when he walked (got carried) into the loft soaked down to the core. Stiles may have also taken a bribe to forgive the older man.

(“I’m keeping the shirt.”

"No you are most certainly not."

"Fine, then I’ll tell everyone that you went out in the pouring rain to look for me and then carried me back to the loft. And begged me to forgive you: on your knees.")

He needed something good out of this situation. Plus, the shirt was really soft. And it wasn’t like Derek didn’t have fifty others exactly like it.

**Author's Note:**

> also hi i'm going to be writing a stackson multi chaptered fic soon if you want to look out for that in the future! you can find me on tumblr at ahwho.tumblr.com or partofhispack.tumblr.com


End file.
